“It fell out of your pocket, up there. It was about to blow off in the wind, but I caught it.” She stretched her arm out. “It is yours, isn’t it?”

Rio nodded. Then cleared his throat and stood up awkwardly. “Yes,” he said at last. “It’s mine.” Then he picked the sketch out of her palm, feeling the warmth of it on his fingertips.

“I didn’t look at it by the way, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Rio blushed. Because that’s exactly what he had been thinking. He looked distrustfully at the girl. But she didn’t seem sneery or mean—not like some of his classmates back home. Instead, there was something about the frank openness in her face that made it impossible not to believe her.

“Th-th-thank you,” he said, feeling ashamed of how he had judged her, something his mom had always told him not to do.

“You’re not from around here?” the girl asked, noting his accent. “Where do you come from?”

“London,” he replied, spitting out a few grains of wet sand. “England.”

“Then you shouldn’t go too close to the ocean if you’re not used to it.” She frowned at his damp clothes, but not unkindly. “There’s a strong current. You can’t see it, but it’s there and, if you’re not careful, it’ll drag you out to sea.”

“I . . . was . . . just . . .”

Rio found himself tongue-tied. This girl had a self-confidence that he had never seen before in someone his age. It wasn’t just the red dungarees, which had so many pockets it was impossible to count them all, or the green long-sleeved T-shirt that matched the color of her eyes. It was the way she held herself.

Like she owned the entire ocean.

“Do you live here?”

“Over there.” She pointed in the direction of the lighthouse. “With my dad.” She smiled at the mention of him. The kind of smile that lit up her entire face from the inside out. If Rio had been the envious sort, he might have been jealous of that smile and everything it contained.

“Anyway,” she said, winking at him, “you know what you need, don’t you?”

He shook his head.

“Deeper pockets!”

And, with one last grin, she skipped away.

7

The Museum

“F-F-Fran?” Rio asked once he was back in the kitchen.

She was hunched over the crossword with a pursed brow. Sitting down, she looked much smaller and older somehow. For the first time, he noticed how some of her fingers were swollen with age, and he felt that horrible hot flush of shame that comes when you’ve not been your kindest, best self.

“Yes, Rio?” She put down the pen and turned her attention to him. Her expression was wary, and by her ankles, Pirate stood guard.

“The box . . .” he started, then cleared his throat. His mouth was as dry as a desert. “The box had a sketchbook in it, and I wondered . . . I wondered why . . .”